


Drawing Lines

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Military Police - Freeform, Older Characters, have a tour of Sina
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:36:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1799035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different ending for my canonverse fic "<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1592573">To Everything There Is A Season</a>" (originally based on kaa-05n2's drawing for Jean's birthday, in fact). If Marco and Jean joined the Military Police just as they planned--no battle of Trost, no death, no Titan transformations--what kind of people would they become?</p><p>Or, Jean and Marco learn what it is to grow up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blank Pages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaa05n2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaa05n2/gifts).



> Call it a teaser for the oft-discussed yet never written Military Police AU based on kaa-05n2's drawings. I've been discussing this AU with her for a month or so with lots of ideas thrown around and all kinds of goodness.
> 
> It didn't occur to me until today that it'd actually be fun to extend "To Everything There Is A Season" into an alternate plot line where Marco survives... and then, suddenly IT ALL MADE SENSE. Military Police AU + that 'verse = possibly long multipart canonverse canon divergence fic based on kaa's drawings? (Say THAT five times fast.) Coincidentally, then she posted [this wonderful drawing](http://kaa-05n2.tumblr.com/post/88972927329/happy-birthday-marco) in honor Marco's birthday... and yes.
> 
> Chapter 1 is being written in honor of Marco's birthday in a timely manner, so it's really more of a snippet teaser.
> 
> Kaa's birthday drawing (linked above) will be where the next scene is set. However, I'm too tired to go beyond ~1,500 words tonight, and I am determined to post something for Marco's birthday on time. XD Also, if you've read any of my other fics and you recognize some of these details, they're head canon mainstays.

Jean’s room is less than spartan, and Marco's eyes wander over the various objects and decorations—heavy curtains, artwork, and even a pair of very fine calfskin boots for special occasions

He's leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, waiting for Jean as he suits up. He just got off watch, but he’s decided to change into a fresh uniform for the evening’s “festivities.”

Marco already feels silly about the whole affair, but Jean had told a few of his friends that it was Marco’s birthday, and then suddenly Marco found himself trying to keep up with a whirlwind of plans.

From what he could tell from the fast, excited conversation, their group _might_ be going out to a fancy bar in Sina. Marco hasn’t spent nearly as much time going “out” as Jean, although he can’t begrudge anyone a good time, as long as it’s done off duty.

Jean is spending an awfully long time on his appearance in the small mirror hanging above his bureau. He’s donned the typical uniform—still quick with the ODM gear—but it’s freshly pressed and starched. Of course, it’s mostly just for show, but as Marco has learned, a lot of the Military Police tends to lean in that direction. Peacocking is a full-time job; not that he’d ever accuse Jean of such a thing.

Marco raises an eyebrow as he catches Jean’s eye in the mirror.

“So, where are we going?” he asks, smiling a little as he shifts his weight. He feels nervous, even though he’s trying to hide it. He likes socializing, and he’s always been good with people, but their fellow officers are unlike any Marco’s met. He tends to spend most of his free time with Connie and Sasha, since they generally keep things simple—no upscale drinking establishments or entertainment. 

“There’s this great place,” Jean enthuses, grinning at Marco in the mirror. His excitement is infectious, though, and Marco’s smile widens. “They serve the same kind of liquor that the king stocks. Not bad, huh?”

“Um,” Marco says with a nervous laugh and a shrug, “yeah. That’s great.”

Jean turns around, straightening his shirt and then falling into a serious salute for a moment, looking intensely at Marco, before relaxing and laughing. “Do I look like a serious officer of the esteemed Military Police?”

Marco’s first instinct is to say that they _are_ serious officers of the Military Police (even Marco dropped the word “esteemed” within a few months of enrollment), but then he just smiles a little.

“Sure,” he says.

“So what’d your mother send you?”

“Oh, just a letter this year,” Marco replies, relieved to be off the topic of fancy liquor and entertainment in Sina. “Actually, I sent _them_ something for once.” Marco raises his eyebrows, smiling warmly. “It was like a birthday gift just to be able to do that.”

That “something” was his entire first paycheck.

Jean’s face softens and he nods. “Yeah, that sounds good. How is everyone?”

Jean had been too busy with “previous engagements” with upper officials to go back to Jinae for the winter holidays again the previous year.

Marco did his best to convince himself that it didn’t involve high stakes poker tournaments and smoking. He told his family that Jean had very important Military Police business, and they had all been impressed, of course.

“Marco?”

“Oh,” Marco says, blinking, startled out of his thoughts to find Jean standing directly in front of him, waiting for an answer to the inquiry about the Bodt family. “Everyone’s doing well. Max is getting tall...” He tilts his head a little to the side and laughs. “He’s going to be my height, I think.”

Jean grins, and pats Marco on the shoulder. “Seems likely. Okay, are you ready?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Marco says, rubbing the back of his head and giving a nervous little laugh. “Uh, let me just use the mirror real quick, yeah?”

“Okay,” Jean nods. “I’ll meet you downstairs, because I think everyone is already waiting.”

Marco has no idea who “everyone” is.

He smiles and nods. “Sounds good.”

Jean careens out of the room, and Marco can hear the thump of his footsteps on the carpeted stairs. 

Marco was taken aback when he’d seen the barracks for the first time. There are carpeted stairs and dark wood paneling everywhere, and almost everyone gets their own room. There are less recruits than Marco had first thought there’d be, although he’d realized he’d simply gotten used to being around lots of people all at once. If it wasn’t his family, then it was the 104th Squad.

He misses it, sometimes, as illogical as it sounds.

He takes a deep breath and wanders over to Jean’s bureau top to peer into the mirror hanging there.

Marco looks more or else the same. His hair is a little longer—although he still cuts it himself—and his face is a little more angular. Less young, more sharp, and now replete with a five o’clock shadow if he doesn’t shave every day.

He glances around Jean’s room again—it’s a hodge-podge of fine things. There are one or two paintings on the wall he’d won in a poker game with some senior officers one late night, and his bed is unmade.

He’d informed Marco that there are “people to do that” for officers of the Military Police.

Marco returns his gaze to the dark mahogany bureau top again, giving into curiosity and examining the different objects left out absentmindedly. 

He reassures himself that if something is in plain sight, then it’s not a violation of Jean’s privacy to look at it.

It also seems increasingly difficult to keep sight of Jean’s core these days—of what makes Jean himself.

Marco puts the thought out of his mind, reprimanding himself as he picks up a pack of Jean’s fancy cigarettes and looks at them idly; it was Jean who planned this entire evening all for Marco, and here he is, thinking ill of his friend.

He turns around to glance at the closed door, and when it becomes clear that no one is about to burst in, he slides out one of the cigarettes and smells the unsmoked tobacco.

He’s not sure how he feels about the fact now that he associates it with Jean. Smoking is a vice he’s not completely unfamiliar with—there _is_ a black market outside of Wall Sina, though there’s not much of it in Jinae—and he’s even tried it at Jean’s urging. They’re not bad, Marco doesn’t have any inclination to pick the habit up on his own; Marco doesn’t have any particular interest in the many bourgeoisie vices found in Sina.

He slides the cigarette back into the embossed box and slips it into his pocket, knowing Jean will want to bring them along and probably forgot.

Marco’s eyes widen suddenly as he sees a few books on the edge of the bureau that have been stacked between two expensive-looking bookends, decorated in very fine damascene with the Military Police insignia.

He recognizes the spine of one, and he smiles genuinely as he slides the book out from between a novel and a hefty manual of Military Police procedures they’re all required to have on hand.

It’s a sketchbook he’d given Jean earlier in the year, bound in white fabric and embroidered with tiny oranges around the edge—Margit’s handiwork. It’d also been Marco’s graduation present to Jean.

He steals another glance at the door, feeling a little guilty, but he doesn’t think Jean would object to showing Marco what he’s been drawing. He’d finally convinced Jean just before they graduated to share his secret hobby, and at long last, Marco had gotten a look at Jean’s mysterious sketchbook. 

It had contained mostly studies of plants and still lifes, but a few drawings of people, too. Toward the beginning, there were a few sketches of Mikasa, of course, but in the last few pages, Marco had seen his own face staring up from the page.

Jean had blushed and stammered about how he forgot those were there, and Marco had just smiled a little and felt very warm.

They weren’t bad drawings, either. Marco still has a small charcoal drawing that Jean did of the barracks courtyard their first few days there tacked up on his own wall—the only decoration he has in his own room. Marco prefers to stay spartan; it makes him feel centered, given the disorderly and corrupt environment they’ve entered.

He restrain himself, and opens the sketchbook, holding his breath to see what Jean’s been putting down on paper. 

Even though Marco sees Jean every day, it sometimes feels like he’s constantly looking at Jean with blurred vision. He knows the shape in front of him is Jean, but he can’t quite get him into focus, see Jean like he used to—clear and bright.

Marco smiles a little as he flips to the first page, careful not to get anything on the white cover, and his breath catches when he realizes that it’s blank.


	2. Brave New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The give and take of past and present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the uninitiated, the sequel/"alternate ending" for my fic [To Everything There Is A Season](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1592573). :D
> 
> Thank you to Kaa (tumblr user kaa-05n2) for [drawing a beautiful strip from this chapter](http://kaa-05n2.tumblr.com/post/122371896474/its-nearly-dawn-when-they-both-finally-give-into)! (This fic/universe is basically inspired by her art to begin with!)

Marco suspects that what being in the Military Police actually means isn’t quite what any of them envisioned as starry-eyed cadets. 

Spending all day flying around on wires and hoping your instructor doesn’t cut the safety line, running laps in stifling summer heat, and then trying to memorize exactly how long it takes for a downed Titan to regenerate its limbs, makes any dream conjured up all the more sweet.

Therefore, upon reporting to the Military Police barracks the first day only to realize that the duties of new recruits is usually limited to running errands or doing laundry for the upper brass, many new soldiers become quickly disillusioned.

Marco had taken it in stride, quickly accepting that part of being at the bottom means you have to work your way to the top. He’d even tried to find some pride in it—being an officer of the esteemed Military Police was nothing to scoff at, even while doing grunt work. 

However, he soon realized that the unicorn emblem he’d worn with great fanfare on his first day actually earned him more dirty looks from people in the streets than the time he’d accidentally frightened a skunk and returned reeking of a stench that burned everyone’s eyes within a one mile radius.

No one back home would believe him, though, if he said people seemed to despise the unicorn emblem more than the wrath of an angry skunk.

“Hey,” a voice cuts into Marco’s thoughts as Jean stops next to him where they’ve been walking down the street, “you still want to go, right?”

Marco blinks, eyebrows raising as he focuses on Jean in the dim evening light. He adjusts his jacket self-consciously and straightens. “Yeah, sure!” he exclaims, smiling. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Jean studies him momentarily, taking a long drag off the cigarette he’d gratefully accepted from Marco ten minutes before. Marco still felt a little guilty about snooping through Jean’s things, but it hadn’t even felt like “snooping” until he’d realized that were disappointing secrets to be found he hadn’t even anticipated.

At least he had remembered the cigarettes, and Jean had been so pleased as they left the barracks that he hadn’t bothered to ask why Marco had lingered in the room.

“‘Dunno,” Jean shrugs, shrugging his shoulders quickly, “you’re pretty quiet.”

They continue to walk side by side, listening to the idle chatter up ahead where one of their new comrades, Hitch, who somewhat terrifies Marco in private by insisting on calling him “brown eyes” in a rather simpering _purr_ , has captured the attention of everyone present. 

It’s a mix of soldiers—some of whom Marco knows, like Connie and Sasha, and a few new faces that seem to take more to Hitch’s rambling story about how she’d attended a royal ball at some point in her life, as well as some fellow officers who are fond of gambling and share Jean’s preferred brand of tobacco.

“Sorry,” Marco finally replies as they fall a little further behind the crowd, looking over and smiling warmly, “this is great. I never thought I’d go to an actual _tavern_ in Wall Sina!” 

“Stohess is nice,” Jean replies, looking over at Marco with a sideways grin. “Way nicer than Trost.”

They stop abruptly in front of a tavern that Marco assumes is their destination, and he swallows hard. It’s already loud and raucous, the din of people inside almost dizzying, a few soldiers standing at the side of the building in the shadows with mugs of ale, smoking.

“Watch out,” someone snorts, “the Wall Cult is only a few streets away from here. They’re the ones who got the government to ban public intoxication.”

Marco’s eyes widen as he shoots a look over at Jean, and Jean just shrugs again. He doesn’t ask what the Wall Cult is; everyone knows who they are within a few days of starting a new life within the confines of Wall Sina. Occasionally on rounds, he passes the church, and can’t help but find it rather remarkable, even pretty.

The majority of their rabble disappears into the tavern eagerly—some of them share Marco’s inexperience with proper city taverns—and he decides to wait outside with Jean to finish smoking.

“This is really fancy,” he blurts out, looking around self-consciously and straightening his jacket. Even though he knows very well he deserves to be here, given his grades and hard work, he still can’t help but feeling like an outsider in more ways than just being from the countryside.

“Don’t worry,” Jean reassures him, reaching out to clap Marco on the shoulder with his free hand, grinning, “I’ll show you around, and we’ll have a great time.”

Marco finally relaxes somewhat, reassured by the familiar weight of Jean’s hand on his shoulder, and he smiles. The atmosphere is actually pleasant suddenly—distant sound of water from the canal that winds through the town and the gentle dusk that’s settled over the quiet district. 

Considering the last birthday Marco had, he’d spent running laps after one of his few times failing a written exam, this seems like paradise.

“Squeaky clean fun, hm?” a voice interrupts the private moment. Hitch saunters over to them, seemingly having decided to also lurk outside, and she gives Marco a small, unreadable smile, silvery and cold like starlight. “Brown Eyes, you should be angry at your best friend,” she remarks, shooting Jean a critical look with one raised fine eyebrow.

“Uh, why?” Marco stutters, not sure how to respond to the comment. “I’m having a good time...”

Jean just rolls his eyes at Marco, opting to ignore Hitch with a cocky, deep drag off his cigarette that Marco knows very well is Jean’s way of trying to appear at ease when he’s actually uncomfortable.

“Well,” Hitch replies, smile unwavering, “he didn’t take you to a brothel.”

That inspires a cough so powerful that Marco actually has to pound Jean on the back to help him catch his breath amidst a plume of sputtered smoke.

Hitch looks extraordinarily pleased with herself as she tilts her head with a more pronounced smile, soft grey eyes crinkling slightly. “Happy Birthday, Brown Eyes,” she says, pursing her lips.

And then, without further ado, she neatly turns on her heel and strides through the door that’s been propped open due to the temperate June weather, quickly swallowed by a cacophony of sound drifting out onto the street.

Jean doesn’t comment, still coughing and looking irritable as he shrugs Marco’s hand off his shoulder with a gravelly mutter of, “I’m fine.” He finishes his cigarette with two quick, embarrassed inhales, before throwing it onto the cobblestones and grinding it out with his boot.

Marco gives a nervous little laugh and apologetic look. He’s not sure why _he’s_ apologizing, given that Hitch is the one mercilessly tormenting then, but it nonetheless seems appropriate.

“Did you actually want to go to a brothel?” Jean blurts out finally, avoiding Marco’s eyes and staring at the ground.

Marco immediately sobers and he frowns, staring intently at Jean who’s now blushing and looks mortified.

“And be with someone I don’t know?” Marco answers softly. 

Jean jerks his head up and meets Marco’s eyes, and if Marco’s not mistaken, there’s an unexpected look of relief there.

They exchange a few meaningful beats of silence, and then Marco’s breath catches as Jean reaches out to pat his shoulder, withdrawing his hand again quickly. “Me too,” he replies simply, before turning toward the door as he ducks his head and shoves his hands into his pockets.

It’s not that they ever stopped what it was they started that fateful winter in Jinae, but things slowed down after graduation, though for no real reason other than circumstance.

However, that also hasn’t stopped Marco from trying not to stare when Jean forgets to fasten the top button of his shirt, revealing the strong lines of his collar bones and neck.

Ironically, things were a lot simpler when Marco was living on the “wrong side” of the Wall in the training fields or even Jinae, than they are now.

Marco’s admittedly a little nervous about the tavern at first, given that he knows many of the late nights Jean spends out are rather raucous. But true to Jean’s word, the scene he encounters as they walk in isn’t particularly chaotic. 

There are lots of Military Police officers present—new recruits and upper brass alike—alongside some local merchants and other well-to-do people. Making a living outside the military and managing to reside inside Wall Sina is difficult, but as Marco’s seen, some lucky few manage to do it. Of course, they’re almost as corrupt as Marco’s superior officers, but he has to give them credit for at least making a more honest wage.

He ends up seated with a mug of ale he’d been given as a birthday gift, and then Jean’s arm slides around his shoulders as his best friend gives a huge, cocky grin.

“Happy birthday,” Jean declares with a nod, tapping their wooden mugs together firmly and then taking a long swallow of his ale. “We’re gonna live _forever_ ,” he declares, giving a firm nod of his head. A small, skeptical smile tugs at Marco’s lips, but it’s genuinely warm, and he humors Jean with a quick nod.

Jean smells like tobacco and some kind of aftershave—older now, more masculine—and Marco blinks heavily. The ale must be going to his head, since he doesn’t drink alcohol very frequently, but he knows Jean is obviously feeling it a little bit, too. They all are at this point, but that’s part of the fun of a night like this.

Another round of mugs arrives, and are emptied. Jean starts to chatter about the new boots he’s picked out for when he’s finally promoted, how his mother has moved into Stohess district somewhere nearby (Marco assumes, like himself, this has to do with a new substantial paycheck), and a variety of other mundane things.

Marco likes listening, and the alcohol has given him a warm buzz.

Eventually, though, they lapse into a comfortable silence, a tranquil bubble in the center of merrymaking—people sitting in laps, grunting about old stories, some whispering discreetly in corners—a typical scene when lots of people are packed together. It’s taken some getting used to, but the sheer business of a place like Stohess doesn’t astound Marco anymore. 

“There’s a lot of important people here,” Marco notes astutely, breaking the silence as he casts his gaze around with the tavern. “Not just military either.”

“Really?” Jean yawns disinterestedly with a shrug. “I didn’t notice.”

“You don’t usually notice unless someone’s playing a poker game,” Marco ribs gently. He blanches as it comes out far more passive aggressive than he intended, but thankfully, Jean doesn’t take it as a slight.

He just snorts, and retorts in kind, “If you’d ever come with me, then maybe you’d see why.”

It’s somewhat unsettling to Marco that he knows, without the alcohol, those two simples sentences could take the conversation in completely different directions very easily.

But he smiles, snorting and raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Maybe someday.”

“Are you having a good time?” Jean asks, his face becoming more serious as he studies Marco intently.

Marco nods, still smiling, and drains his glass. “Stohess is pretty at night,” he remarks idly, “and this place is...” someone behind them yells out a toast that makes him start, but he laughs, “...exciting!”

Jean laughs, too, and looks satisfied with the answer, and Marco can’t help but feel a little warmth bloom at the genuine concern he’s having a good time. But there’s something else edging it there; something about Jean seeking Marco’s approval in a way he didn’t used to, but Marco can’t put his finger on it. Not yet.

He chooses to ignore his anxiety, and focus on the enjoying himself.

A few more drinks and as many hours later, he’s has had his fill of socializing. He likes people, but the way social norms work within the Military Police are completely foreign to him, and even unsettling.

It’s late enough now that his departure won’t cause an interruption, and he’d rather get to bed since he has the privilege of not being assigned watch on Sunday mornings. 

Marco pushes his mug away and slowly stands up, stretching a little and blinking heavily.

“Thanks for this, Jean,” he says, tapping Jean on the shoulder who’s been distracted by one of their superiors ribbing him about a rather nice cigarette case he’d won far and square in a poker match a month before. 

Jean immediately turns in surprise, his eyes widening. “You’re leaving?”

“Oh, yeah,” Marco replies, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly with a little smile, stifling a yawn. “It’s pretty late.”

To Marco’s surprise, Jean nods and immediately gets to his feet as well, obviously intending to depart at the same time.

Marco doesn’t question it, though, and just smiles sleepily. He wasn’t willing to get his hopes up that Jean would actually come back to the barracks at the same time, even though the idea of spending time _alone_ with his best friend sounds very appealing.

They say goodbye to anyone who would actually notice their absence, and as soon as Marco steps out the door, he immediately feels awake again. The night air is surprisingly crisp, but not bitterly cold, and the sky is clear.

“It’s really pretty up there,” Marco says with a smile, meeting Jean’s eyes who’s immediately reached into his pocket to retrieve a cigarette. “You can see all the stars.”

Jean snorts, but it’s a gentle, teasing sound. “You can stare up at the sky no matter where you are,” he remarks, inhaling the smoke slowly, “but we’re finally _here_ , Marco.” He gives another cocky grin, though he looks tired. “Where we wanted to be,” he reaffirms, giving a nod as they start to walk along the canal together back toward the barracks.

“Do you know constellations?” Marco asks suddenly, casting a look over at Jean who’s pale in the starlight.

Jean shoots him a curious sideways look, but just grunts. “A little,” he answer cryptically.

Meaning the answer is no.

“Well,” Marco continues smoothly, “Margit learned a little bit about them from one of her books. You’re supposed to be able to see animals, warriors, and a bunch of other things.”

Jean hums in acknowledgement without speaking, but Marco can tell he’s curious. The click of their boots against the cobblestones becomes muffled as they enter the barracks courtyard, and Marco is still busy staring into the sky, when Jean asks suddenly, “So, do you know where to look to see all those things in the stars?”

Marco shakes his head as they finally enter the building, walking through the main living quarters back to the recruit rooms. “I can’t remember. I’d have to ask her.”

“Too bad we can’t ask Armin,” Jean says suddenly, and Marco looks over in surprise.

They’ve reached the juncture of the hallway where their rooms are located at opposite ends of the building, and they need to head in opposite directions.

“Yeah, he’d know,” Marco agrees with a quick nod. “I wonder how he and the others are doing...” his voice trails off curiously.

“You mean besides being on a permanent suicide mission?” Jean retorts gruffly. “Led by Jaeger?” He scowls, crossing his arms over his chest almost petulantly, but Marco can tell there’s more to it than that. Still, he leaves it for another day.

“I’m sure we’ll hear something eventually,” Marco finally says, putting it to rest. Jean’s face sobers at that observation, but he doesn’t launch into a tirade.

They stand there in silence for a moment, until finally, Marco looks down at the ground and Jean shoves his hands in his pockets again.

“Well, um,” he starts awkwardly, rubbing the toe of his boot against the carpeted floor, “happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” Marco replies softly, lifting his face to smile a little.

Neither one of them move.

Jean makes a disgusted sound suddenly, exhaling harshly in exasperation, and at first, Marco’s terrified it’s because of something he did.

But then, Jean grabs his hand, and he’s being hauled down the hallway in the direction of Jean’s room. Marco simply goes, letting his feet carry him in the direction he’s being pulled, unable to think of anything else at that moment except the feeling of Jean’s deft, elegant fingers that have now twined with his.

The door to Jean’s room closes behind them, and Marco finds his back pressed against the hard wood, gasping as Jean kisses inside the collar of his shirt. There are hands everywhere—trying to unbutton, unfasten, untuck—and Marco settles finally on linking one hand with Jean’s, and using the other to divest them of their clothing as efficiently as possible.

It’s been a long time since they did this, or at least it seems that way.

The first night as officers of the Military Police, they’d been too tired to even say anything to each other after the evening meal was over.

The second night, they’d both been put on opposite watch shifts.

The third night, when Marco’s roommate was out on watch, Jean had snuck into his room and laid in bed with him. They’d kissed for a while, but it was more soothing than heated, not like other times that had become frequent during training.

“Marco,” Jean gasps, interrupting Marco’s thoughts and making his mind go blank, “bed?”

“Yeah,” Marco sighs, now down to nothing except his unbuttoned shirt and underwear. He knows he must look debauched, can feel the flush in his face, how his cock has already responded to Jean’s attention.

The room is dim, lit only by candlelight, and Marco closes his eyes with a sated sigh.

They kiss and touch and moan for a long time; and then, eventually, exhaustion sets in. The kisses turn into mouths pressed together, touches turn into lazy caresses, and moans become whispered sweet nothings, until the candle Jean had set at the bedside has burned down so far it goes out.

It’s nearly dawn when they both finally give into sleep, Marco’s lips pressed against Jean’s temple as he snores softly, fingers linked together and resting on Jean’s chest.

Just as Marco’s on the verge of full unconsciousness, though, his half-open eyes land on the row of books, barely visible across the room, and he thinks of the empty sketchbook there.

Jean shifts in his sleep suddenly, and Marco moves to accommodate the change in position, smiling a little as he brushes Jean’s unruly hair away from his forehead. 

“Go to sleep,” Jean mumbles unexpectedly, frowning slightly as he reaches out clumsily to poke Marco in the shoulder. He sighs, though, and falls right back to sleep, turning onto his side.

As Marco gives into the request, making himself comfortable under Jean’s satiny sheets that are much more comfortable than his own and settling against an extra pillow, he suddenly smells something unexpected. It almost brings tears to his eyes at the familiarity, and his breath catches.

He frowns slightly in confusion, bringing his hand up to fumble around where the smell is coming from, and his fingers brush against something familiar under Jean’s pillow.

Oranges. Pine. Winter.

Marco holds his breath, waiting to make sure Jean is asleep before letting out a shuddery, taxed exhalation; he feels like he’s uncovered another, completely different type of secret.

Nevertheless, the faint sound of birds just starting to sing in the dawn continues out the window, the smell of sweat from their bodies before is still present, and the soft sound of Jean breathing continues soothingly.

Marco thinks of their momentary musings about the others, and then pushes the ache of an empty journal and contrary rush of smelling a fragrant sachet out of his mind.

Because Jean is here—Jean Kirschstein, his best friend, the thing Marco calls home—and he’s breathing.

Marco forces himself to stop thinking and curls close, letting the rise and fall of Jean’s chest slowly lull him to sleep. Distantly, he can hear the choral hymns of the Wall Cult church begin, signaling proper morning inside Wall Sina as he holds onto one of his only scraps of truth.

Nothing is as it seems in this brave, new world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so the last time I updated this series was... Marco's birthday LAST year. Fittingly, I finished chapter two for Marco's birthday... this year. O_O;;
> 
> This scene specifically based on [Kaa's fantastic drawing](http://kaa-05n2.tumblr.com/post/88972927329/happy-birthday-marco) for Marco's birthday _last_ year. :D 
> 
> Slow going, but I hope you like this installment. This is finally becoming the big project I wanted it to be.  
> It's been a year, so comments are MUCH appreciated--more than ever, tbh. Any feedback, thoughts... anything at all! :D


	3. Adjustments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco grows into himself, and a new jacket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to change my original plans and not have the fic be so much a plot-driven series, but rather a series of vignettes based on and/or related to Kaa's art. This installment isn't drawn from a single piece of art, but rather, the way Kaa draws Military Police jackets. Hnngg... shoulders. >.>;; It seems I have literally updated this fic once a year on Marco's birthday. O_O And who am I to break tradition?! :D
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Happy Birthday, Marco! <3

“Bodt!”

Marco stiffens and straightens where he’s standing in a line of other officers, whipping his fist up against his chest in a smart salute. He can feel Jean glance over from the corner of his eye; the tension must be radiating out from Marco since his name was barked.

“Sir!” he shouts, uncannily reminded of standing in the hot sun with Shadis’s darkened eyes boring through him, even though they’re actually in the hallway of the Military Pollice barracks.

“What the hell is that disgrace of a jacket you’re wearing?” The captain barks, walking up to Marco and getting in his face.

Marco can see Jean starting to bristle a bit—even if no one else can—since they both know the only reason this guy is having what amounts to a tantrum is because he was up late the night before gambling and drinking.

Although, then again, the fact that Marco knows for a fact Jean has done the same in recent weeks does nothing to improve his current mood.

“Sir!” he replies, voice strong and unwavering. “It’s the jacket I was fitted for!”

Marco is annoyed at being singled out for no actual reason, but also a bit confused. He presses his jacket every day and makes a point to remain impeccably outfitted; somehow, it’s also become a comfort. He may as well look the part he dreamed of, even if the Military Police isn’t everything he expected.

He doesn’t dare look down to inspect his ensemble, though, as the furious senior officer glares—though he has to look up to do so, given that he’s shorter than Marco who’s grown at least two inches in the time since they joined. It’s only a few months since his birthday passed, but he’s feeling his seventeen years in a lot of ways now.

There’s an awkward silence that extends for a few beats, everyone simply staring straight ahead. Although there’s a diverse mix of personalities in the new Military Police class, generally, Marco is well liked. It’s similar to the 104th, except now Marco has won favor simply by being on time for watch and not causing problems. No one wants to see him reamed out this early in the morning. That dubious honor usually goes to Marlowe Sand, if anyone.

“Bodt, what do you do with your paycheck? Piss it away?”

_No, that’d be more like you, sir._

Marco’s thoughts are resentful and a little petty, but the day isn’t off to a great start.

“I send it to my family in Jinae, sir.”

He keeps the salute up, and the captain lets out a bark of a laugh. “You’re an insult to your family if you continue to wear the official insignia of the most elite force inside the Walls on a jacket that’s too small!”

Something clicks into place, and Marco can’t help the way his face immediately heats; the tightness in the shoulders of his jacket suddenly makes sense, but he hadn’t really paid much mind to it. He’s outgrown his uniform and needs to have it altered.

His senior officer continues yammering like a spoiled child about his lack of respect for the uniform, until someone dares yawn and he makes his way down the line.

Marco is so humiliated he doesn’t even want to drop the salute, but if he doesn’t, he’ll probably be accused of mocking the crown in addition to insulting the unicorn insignia.

“Hypocritical asshole,” Jean murmurs under his breath when the captain is out of earshot and busy torturing some other poor soul.

He feels Jean nudge his boot and shoot him a sympathetic look, but Marco can’t even bring himself to meet Jean’s eyes. The words, though a childish insult, do make him feel a bit better, though. Jean may not be a rabble rouser, per se, but he also calls bullshit when he sees it; at least someone does.

Finally, they’re dismissed and sent off to their assignments, but not without a parting jab at Marco about getting his “shameful attire adjusted accordingly.”

Uniform alterations are covered for the upper officers, and Marco knows for a fact that most of them have what amounts to their own personal couturier. Bespoke jackets, oiled leather straps for ODM gear never used in a fight, and starched white pants so stiff they could walk on their own is all standard fare.

The fact is that Marco takes great pride in his appearance, but he hadn’t bargained on growing.

“You’re really tall now,” Jean says, looking up at him with a teasing smile as they make their way to courtyard. “Titan tall.”

“I’m only two inches taller than you,” Marco retorts in a grumpy voice, not even Jean’s stupid teasing doing much to cheer him up.

“Well,” Jean reasons, stopping to bend and rub at a scuff in his boot, “pretty soon we’ll be changing over to the greatcoats, so then you’ll have a reason to get a new one.” Jean brightens, looking over at Marco with excitement glinting in his eyes. “I’ve been saving my paycheck so I can one of those wool ones, the kind that only the highest ranking officers wear!”

“That’d cost a year’s paycheck,” Marco replies with wide eyes, staring at Jean openly. “You could…” He struggles to think of something expensive that could be purchased rather than a wool bespoke greatcoat. “You could buy 1,000 oranges for that price!”

Jean grins at Marco when he mentions the oranges, his cheeks pinking a little. Marco ignores the flutter that immediately starts up in his chest whenever Jean smiles like that at him.

“First of all, I’d rather have a wool greatcoat than a thousand oranges,” Jean reasons as the blush fades, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms in a cocky stance. “Second of all, I’m closer to affording the price than you think.” He nods, looking very sure of himself. “I won the entire pot a few nights ago.”

Marco raises his eyebrows, shifting uncomfortably in his already uncomfortable too-small jacket. “Jean,” he breathes, “that’s a lot of money.”

Jean shrugs as if it’s nothing, and rolls his eyes. “Lighten up, Marco. Hey, besides, now I an buy you a birthday present!” He looks a little sheepish, running his hand over the back of his head and sneaking a look up at his best friend. “It’s been… a while since we went out that night.”

Marco clears his throat and Jean looks away, both of them blushing. It’s been a while since they were together like that.

Despite the pleasant memory, though, Marco can’t help his next words.

“I don’t want a birthday present bought with money from corrupt officers,” he frowns, regretting the words a little as Jean’s face falls, and then immediately become defensive. Jean withdraws and sticks his chin out stubbornly, regarding Marco with absolute disdain.

Even though Marco regrets being so painfully blunt a bit, and he especially doesn’t like the way Jean’s disappointment stings, he can’t bring himself to regret the point. It’s been building between the two of them for months, as it always does, before being dispelled by some outside force, but never completely resolved.

Somewhere in the more cynical depths of his mind, Marco can’t help but wonder if one day, the tension won’t disappear. It’s a thought too terrible for him to really address most of the time, so he simply lets the possibility lie. As his mother says, there’s no good in wallowing.

“Fine,” Jean replies curtly after a moment of tense silence. “I’ll see you later.” His shoulders are stiff as he turns on his heel and walks away quickly, headed off toward the garret where he’s stationed every morning for watch. It’s boring, but he doesn’t mind since it means he can smoke with the other officers and mostly just stare at the sky.

Part of Marco—the childish part that hasn’t quite grown into the width of his shoulders—wants to chase after Jean, rescind his statements, say he was wrong. 

But he’s _not_ wrong, and he’s not a child, so he turns on his heel too and walks in the other direction which he also does not enjoy. 

Marco’s been assigned the thankless task of assisting an elderly general who rarely leaves his office with correspondence and other administrative matters. Basically, he’s a glorified messenger pigeon, but at least he’s actually _doing_ something. It also makes for some decent stories for his siblings, since he can at least make it sound somewhat exciting.

When they ask what Jean’s doing, though, he can’t bring himself to say anything except, “Oh, he’s realy busy, so we don’t see each other much,” since the real answer is less than inspiring.

= = =

“It’s going to cost _how_ much?” Marco cries, trying to keep the panic out of his voice as he stands in front of the mirror of the small tailor shop in Stohess, staring at the reflection of the tailor behind him in great distress.

The silver-haired man looks nonplussed, pushing his glasses up his nose calmly and draping the measuring tape around his neck. “You boys can afford it,” he says simply. His no-nonsense disposition makes Marco think that he probably didn’t grow up in Sina, but makes a good business selling a service that most high ranking military officers are very picky about.

“But…” Marco’s voice trails off pathetically. “I don’t have that much.”

“Right,” the tailor says flatly, stepping back toward the counter, “probably busy spending it on booze and gambling.”

When Marco turns in surprise, his eyes wide—it’s uncommon someone has the gall to be openly hostile about the Military Police—the man just stares back at him without so much as a flinch.

“I’ve been fitting your forces for twenty years,” he continues in a bored voice, looking totally unintimidated by Marco’s presence. He might as well be a fly on the wall for all this man cares. “I know how you work. Leave or take the offer for the alteration—it’s up to you.”

Marco doesn’t actually have a choice and it’s really not up to him, since if he doesn’t get the jacket fixed, all it will take is a hungover, pissed off captain looking for an easy target to get him court martialed. He wouldn’t put it past some of his senior officers.

“Fine,” he sighs, knowing he won’t be able to send the money home to Jinae he’d promised this month, which means that Margit will be patching up Max’s clothes for at least another few weeks before they can afford any new fabric.

It’s an easy alteration, and although Marco has been tempted to do it himself several times since he knows his way around a needle and thread, all it’d take is one wrong snip of the scissors to ruin a uniform which is professional suicide as a new addition to the elite forces.

Finally, though, the jacket has been let out enough in the shoulders and sleeves that it fits properly again. It’s a good enough feeling to don clothes that fit him properly, but the lightness of his pockets is particularly disconcerting.

It’s early evening by the time Marco starts back to the barracks. He’d procured permission to go get his uniform taken care of, since most of the time, free time came at premium for lower ranking officers. However, unlike the Survey Corps or even cadet training, there’s a distinct lack of urgency or purpose within Wall Sina. It’s as if everyone—both civilians and military personnel alike—are simply living their lives without a thought about the horrors of the outside world. It seems that many of the citizens that aren’t military are also somehow related to the royal family or possesses other connections.

As he walks, he decides to indulge and goes at a leisurely pace. There are people passing, some of them in fine clothes with arms linked, children grasping toys and laughing, even a few baby carriages. It’s a completely different world than anything Marco’s ever known, and although it’s pleasant in its own way, he’s not entirely comfortable here.

Suddenly, someone bumps his shoulder, and he starts in surprise, lost in his thoughts.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” a voice exclaims.

A young woman turns and looks apologetic as she meets Marco’s eyes, a basket of rolls in the crook of her arm, obviously en-route and in a hurry, and she apologizes again for bumping into him.

Marco smiles a little, shrugging; he realizes quite suddenly that Jean was right as he looks down at her. He’s a lot taller than he first noticed. 

After a moment, though, he realizes the girl is still staring at him, and she immediately looks down and blushes. Confused, he cocks his head to the side, trying to figure out if he did or said something to embarrass her.

“If you…” she stammers, biting her lip and meeting his eyes again, “ever need bread, you should stop by the bakery.” She smiles a little, shy again as the blush intensifies, and Marco realizes quite suddenly what’s transpiring as her eyes dart from his head down to his toes and up again. “I work there with my father,” she adds, raising her eyebrows. “You’re welcome any time…” she trails off, waiting.

Before she can introduce herself, though, and this conversation continues, he suddenly feels a distinct need to escape. He gives her a stiff salute and a smile, and nods instead. “Thank you, and sorry again for bumping into you.”

With that, he turns quickly and walks away, feeling a little silly for his abrupt departure and not wanting to entertain the notion that he may have just been frightfully rude.

He knows that people his age start to consider marriage, and while he’s relatively sure his mother would never pressure him into a marriage, it’s still expected of him to find a wife.

But he doesn’t want to marry the pretty girl from the bakery, or his childhood sweetheart, or spend his life anyone who doesn’t wear the same jacket as he does.

In fact, he’d be perfectly happy never getting married at all if he could share quarters in the barracks with Jean Kirschstein for the rest of his life.

He’s old enough now and seen enough of the world—which is to say, not a lot, but enough—to know what that conclusion means exactly, what Jean means to him.

However, this doesn’t mitigate the fact that he still doesn’t want a birthday present from money gained through unsavory means.

Marco sighs wearily, shoving his hands in his pockets and feeling dejected as he chooses a route along the canal, safely away from people strolling through the wide, manicured streets.

In an attempt to avoid his anxious thoughts, instead he admires the way the setting sun glints off the choppiness of the water, the pink sky spread out above him filled with typical shimmering clouds. If there’s one thing that does bring Marco comfort and help him ward off homesickness, it’s looking at the sky, since it’s the same no matter where he goes. Whether it’s snowing or summer, it’s always there, stretching above everyone.

Before Sina and even Trost, he’d never seen a waterway within a city. It actually fascinated him—the idea of being able to traverse long distances solely by boat—since he was used to horses and carts.

He’d asked Jean for a drawing of the canals to send to Margit, and makes a note to ask again the next time they’re on good terms, and that horrible tension hasn’t eaten up all the oxygen around them again.

By the time he gets back to the barracks, night’s fallen, and he’s hoping to avoid the typical scene of gambling officers and cigarette smoke floating in the air. He’s also suddenly resenting the fact that he and Jean had recently been reassigned and ended up as each other’s roommates. At the time, they’d been overjoyed with this turn of events since Jean’s previous roommate snored and had a propensity for spitting chewing tobacco on the floor.

Now, though, the last person Marco wants to see is Jean after their earlier disagreement.

Fate seems to be working against Marco, though, and any luck he may have had seems to have vanished with his entire savings when he walks into the room to see Jean standing there, wearing a sumptuous wool greatcoat.

He jumps a little when he hears the door, whirling around to stare at Marco with wide eyes, as if he’s been caught doing something wrong.

Marco just stares back, blinking, a little confused; but several thoughts rush through his head.

The first is that Jean must’ve really gambled something big to be able to win that much back.

The second is the dawning, horrified realization that they’re about go switch over to greatcoats with their uniforms, whereas Marco just used his entire paycheck to get a jacket for the warmer months altered.

And the third—which he instantly resents even though it’s undeniable—is that Jean looks startlingly handsome. 

“Where’d you get that?” he blurts out, not in the mood for subtlety and irritated that he’s relatively sure his face currently resembles the girl who bumped into him in the street. It’s a lot more pathetic when he blushes, though.

Jean blinks, and to Marco’s surprise, there’s a slight glimmer of guilt in his eyes.

“Uh,” he says sheepishly, shrugging the jacket off and carefully laying it over his bed, “they told us earlier that we’re switching to the greatcoats starting tomorrow, so I went and… got this one.” He clears his throat awkwardly, shuffling his feet. “I bought the one I wanted with the pot I won.”

Marco continues to stare at him, and his mood is even further darkened by the fact he’s probably going to need to get the greatcoat fitted too since he hasn’t worn his since when they first entered the Military Police.

“You gambled away any money you had so you could waste _more_ money on junk?” Marco questions, feeling like picking a fight.

It’s not like him at all, but this place has made him a bit different; it’s as if he’s continually sinking into a mire he’s spent most of his energy to avoid, but even now, it’s inescapable.

He drops his eyes to the floor, setting his jaw and feeling uncharacteristically furious, waiting for Jean to lash out at him. He’s usually the one who’s used to dealing with Jean’s occasional bratty tantrums, and he knows full well that Jean does act like a spoiled child at times, but Marco’s always been willing to take the bad with the good because the good far outweighs anything else. It still does, but he’s just not in the mood right now.

In fact, he feels like someone beat him up and stole his money, which in essence, is actually what happened.

He turns away abruptly before Jean can start berating him or say something dismissive, planning on collapsing into bed and dealing with the fallout tomorrow. He has to get up early anyway.

However, as he starts to take off his ODM gear roughly, scowling with his back to Jean, he realizes that Jean still hasn’t said a single word.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t stop, allowing Jean to baste in his own resentment on the other side of the room, until Marco’s removed all of his gear and is working on the buttons of his shirt when he feels a hand settle lightly on his shoulder.

He turns abruptly in surprise, seeing Jean standing in front of him with an unfamiliar expression; it’s oddly calm, to the point where Marco wants to drop all pretenses and ask if Jean has a fever.

Instead, all he says is, “You had a shitty day.”

Marco’s mouth opens and closes, and Jean just continues to stare at him, searching his face for answers. Finally, all he can do is shrug roughly and shake his head, not wanting to get into it since he’s too tired to rehash his entire frustrating day.

“Are you doing anything on your free day?” Jean asks cryptically.

Marco takes a deep, silent breath to calm his nerves, still not sure what Jean’s motives are, but he decides to simply answer.

“No,” he grunts with a small shrug. “I guess I’ll have to find a way to get this greatcoat altered now, too.” It’s probably twice as expensive as the other jacket.

“I have something for you,” Jean continues. “But you have to go somewhere with me the day after tomorrow.”

Marco doesn’t have the energy to say he doesn’t want anything purchased with dirty money, so he just gives a small sigh, but nods.

“It’s nothing I bought,” Jean adds. When he takes the time to actually try to read the people around him, he’s rather good at it; usually he just doesn’t do so unless it benefits him. It’s clear he remembers what Marco said earlier, though, and took it to heart.

They don’t apologize to each other for their earlier argument, but they also don’t remain in hostile silence. A tentative calm settles over the room as Marco finishes getting undressed and ready for bed, and Jean smokes a cigarette out the window.

When Marco lies down, though, his back to the dim light that Jean’s still burning in the oil lamp, he’s surprised when suddenly his mattress dips and squeaks. 

Then Jean’s there, sitting on the edge of the bed, smelling faintly of smoke mixed with his own unique scent Marco can’t totally describe in words; Marco will never admit it, but tobacco doesn’t smell so bad when it’s on Jean. He could even learn to like it if he associated it with his best friend, but what he’ll never be able to accept is _how_ Jean buys his cigarettes. It’s not even the gambling, so much as where the money comes from and how it’s passed around.

Jean leans down and over Marco’s shoulder, his mouth near Marco’s ear. It seems like he’s about to say something meaningful—a secret or confession—but then whispers, “That asshole who reamed you out this morning is the ugliest Titan I’ve ever seen.”

Marco bursts out laughing; it’s not even that funny, but it’s so absurd and ridiculous, and such an earnest attempt to make him feel better, he can’t help it.

He chokes a little too when Jean then kisses at his ear; Marco’s breath catches, and he immediately reacts by arching his back.

They’ve gotten more comfortable with each other. It’s not like the first time, when it was exciting but also nerve wracking and awkward. Although they’re not together as frequently now, when they do get physical, it’s like falling into a familiar, ecstatic haze.

Jean knows where and how Marco likes to be touched, and Marco knows the same about Jean.

He pulls away after the first kiss, but Marco knows it’s not from lack of interest, so much as a combination of Jean trying not to press his luck and consideration for the fact Marco has to wake up before dawn.

“Thanks,” he whispers when Jean stands to return to his own bed.

Jean just nods and shrugs a little, never one to be particularly sentimental with words; when the light is snuffed out a few minutes later, Marco finally smiles for the first time that day.

= = =

“Okay, so where are we going?”

Jean grins mysteriously, shaking his head in delight at denying Marco the knowledge to know what mystery trip they’ve embarked upon.

It’s their free day, and Jean has decided to escort Marco outside of Sina for unknown reasons, and apparently, the trip will take up the entire day. 

As Military Police officers, they can travel between the Walls without much questioning or requirements for special permission like ordinary citizens. In fact, it’s actually a little surreal as they cross into Wall Rose, walking side by side.

Jean’s cheerful, wearing his new greatcoat proudly with its unicorn emblem beautifully stitched on the sleeves; Marco feels a little shabby next to him, since as expected, his own greatcoat is now a touch too small. Fortunately, greatcoats for new officers are made with enough extra fabric to be let out, given how young much of the military is.

Nonetheless, they get the typical intrigued looks the further away from Sina they go, and Jean basks in the attention.

“You’re really not going to tell me where we’re going?” Marco asks finally, feeling like he should interrupt Jean’s parading around like a proud peacock on principle (a bird he’s only ever read about), though in reality it’s actually sort of amusing. That, and Marco has to concede the point, if only to himself, that Jean actually has got something to flaunt right now.

Marco has pointedly been avoiding staring at Jean’s broad shoulders and the angular line of his jaw for some time now.

The morning is brisk and regardless that Marco’s jacket is a touch too small, he’s grateful for its warmth. The weather is changing quickly, even though it seems like only yesterday they were just starting their first week in the Military Police brigade.

“We’re going to get your birthday present,” Jean says, obviously enjoying keeping Marco in the dark about this, but it’s charming because he’s obviously excited. What exactly Jean has in store, though, Marco can’t even begin to imagine.

As they walk together, after a while, Marco actually has to stop himself from grabbing Jean’s hand. It just seems natural though, and the inclination is so strong, he actually entertains the notion of just doing it; but he’s not sure how Jean would react. Probably not well, although then again, Jean’s never really cared much about what people think of him if their opinions don’t matter.

As the houses slowly start to become closer together and the vendors louder, Marco suddenly recognizes where they are, though.

“Are we going to Trost?” he exclaims in surprise, his eyes widening.

Jean grins over at him, enthusiasm practically radiating off him. “Yeah,” is all he’ll say, and then places his hand at the small of Marco’s back, smiling. “Stop asking questions and hurry up.”

Marco snorts, but is privately thrilled when Jean’s touch lingers for a few moments longer than necessary; when he draws away, they’re both blushing slightly.

The sky is a fresh, bright blue, and Marco inhales deeply, enjoying the brisk air and the smell of smoked meat on the street. For the first time in awhile, he feels more at home. 

= = =

Marco’s met Mrs. Kirschstein twice. The first time was when she showed up randomly to check up on Jean, much to his dismay, and the second was right after they’d joined the Military Police.

She has also loved Marco from the moment she set eyes on him, calling him a “good influence on Jeanbo.”

Jean groans a lot about his mother, but on the short list of people who Jean would put himself in harm’s way for, she’s obviously at the top.

“Marco!” comes the delighted cry as they walk into the house, and Jean’s mother throws her arms around Marco, squeezing the air out of him. Jean makes a long suffering sound and rolls his eyes, protesting weakly as she turns to take him in one arm and Marco in the other.

Jean’s mother is stronger than most soldiers Marco knows.

“You two look so grown up!” she marvels, taking a step back to look at both of them. “If you don’t come visit more often, I’m not going to recognize you,” she exclaims, reaching up to flick Jean in the back of the head playfully.

“ _Mom,_ ” he groans, taking a step back, “I’m not a kid.”

Marco bites back a smile, given the fact that Jean acts his most childish as soon as he’s in his mother’s company; she spoils him rotten, but somehow, he hasn’t turned out like as a boorish fool.

They sit and eat homemade bread and soup at the large wooden table, and Marco is in such a state of blissful home-cooked-meal heaven that he completely forgets about the mystery “birthday present” which is the entire reason they’re here.

Just the meal is a gift, though; Marco hasn’t felt this relaxed in months, and although it makes him slightly homesick, being away from Sina is just what he needed.

“So,” Jean’s mother starts, standing up to retrieve Marco’s empty bowl and refill it even as he protests out of politeness, “I hear they’re robbing you blind for alterations.”

Marco immediately colors, his mood suddenly darkening in embarrassment; he’s quiet for a moment, accepting the soup as Jean’s mother sits back down at the table and looks at him.

“I guess that’s just how it works,” he says with a little sigh, staring down into his soup, wondering why Jean would share such an embarrassing detail with his mother.

“Nonsense,” she says simply. “When you’re done with your soup, put on your jacket and come in the other room.” 

And with that, she gets up and disappears into a part of the house Marco’s never been in.

It’s not very good manners to be angry at someone whose home you’re in and whose mother’s food you’re eating, but Marco can’t help it.

“It’s really embarrassing I can’t afford to get my jacket fixed,” Marco says softly, biting his lip. “Maybe it’s not for you, because it’s not a problem you have, but…”

Jean reaches out across the table, not looking a bit perturbed at Marco’s sullen, quiet speech, and flicks Marco’s fingers cheerfully.

“My mom is a master seamstress,” he says simply, raising an eyebrow. “Even better than Commander Dok’s own private tailor, I swear. She’s going to fix your jacket.”

Marco’s mouth falls open and he just stares; this time, when Jean reaches out, he twines his fingers with Marco’s over the table.

“And…” he clears his throat, smiling a little and reaching into his pocket, “happy birthday.” 

Marco’s confused at first when he sees the sketchbook he’d given Jean for _his_ birthday the year before, especially when Jean removes the small slipcover that Margit had embroidered with oranges.

“Here,” Jean says, sliding it across the table and tucking the slipcover carefully back into his pocket, “open it.”

He smiles—the smile that makes flutters in Marco’s chest happen—and Marco’s throat tightens as he opens to the first page and realizes the entire book is full of sketches of the canals throughout Stohess.

“Send it to Margit,” he says, and Marco can hear the proud note in his voice—pride for something he actually earned and did for himself, rather thang gambled his way to. “If you give me another one that fits this cover, I’ll draw whatever you want.”

When Marco just sits there, staring at the drawing on the first page, Jean’s voice is unsure, almost childlike and vulnerable, as he asks timidly, “Do you like it?”

Marco finally raises his eyes, and maybe it’s the comforting smell of homemade soup or the faint smell of tobacco, but he can’t help it when he blurts out, “I’m sorry I was so hard on you.”

Jean, clearly not expecting this response, opens his mouth and then shuts it again, apparently at a loss for words.

Marco knows Jean. He knows he’s not ever going to hear the words, “You’re right,” but when Jean concedes a point, he does so fully and conclusively.

In this case, the point that he might want to rethink some of his activities has clearly been taken; Marco decides if Jean’s going to be open to criticism, he may as well be honest.

“Also,” he says softly, realizing their fingers are still interlinked on the table, “you look really handsome in that jacket.”

Jean tries to smile and be cocky, shooting Marco a grin, but his cheeks are bright red and he is clearly fighting being totally flustered. 

Marco likes the way it makes warmth rise in him, like something comforting and new that starts at his heart and floats to his head, the feeling of home through the scent of Jean’s mother’s house and Jean himself.

“C’mon,” Jean says, clearing his throat brusquely, “let’s go fix your jacket.”

When Marco stands up and collects his wits, straightening, he finds Jean’s hands settled on his shoulders momentarily.

“You look like a real officer of the Military Police,” he says softly, “like you deserve it.”

Marco snorts a little, but his voice is a little choked when he replies very quietly, “Thanks.”

Later, when both greatcoats are hanging on the hooks of their shared quarters, Jean kisses Marco goodnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback craved and appreciated!! :'D Thank you for reading!


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